


a thousand reasons

by savagescribbles (timeandcelery)



Category: Girl Genius
Genre: Explicit Consent, F/M, First Time, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-20
Updated: 2014-01-20
Packaged: 2018-01-09 09:57:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1144628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timeandcelery/pseuds/savagescribbles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Agatha,” he murmurs, breaking away to kiss down her jawline to her neck. “Agatha, mon ange. What do you want?”</p><p>Agatha/Tarvek, a nervous first time, and lots of sticky-sweet French endearments.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a thousand reasons

**Author's Note:**

> I was frustrated that there was pretty much zero fic of just these two, so I wrote what is essentially four thousand words of utterly saccharine foreplay (and then didn't want to write the actual sex). I am not sure this actually rectifies the problem, but there you go.

“Tarvek,” she says, and he lifts his head from her shoulder. “Do you want this? I... I do. But do you?”

Blue fire, does he; he’s dreamed of it since they met. But what he’s dreamed of was always... her. Making her happy. Trying to show her that she had his heart and his soul and his everything. And he doesn’t know how to do that. She is his lady, his princess, the sun in his sky, and he is terrified of hurting her. But he has to tell her. How could he not?

He cups her chin with gentle fingers, tilts it up to meet her eyes. “Yes, love,” he says. “Yes. But…I don’t want to hurt you. I want this… I want this to be what you want, love.”

She makes a soft little sound in her throat and sinks against him, arms coming up around his back, and he freezes. He would only have to dip his head to kiss her, he would only have to slip his arms around her waist to hold her, he would -- he would breathe out something disgustingly worshipful as he buries his face in her hair, apparently.

He breathes deeply, surrounded by the smell and feel of her, the soft stir of her breath against his throat and the softer brush of her hair on his cheek. Then, all too suddenly, she pulls back, still in his arms but no longer curled against his chest. She reaches up and brushes his bangs from his face. 

“You really are amazing,” she says, and before he can protest, she kisses him. She is heat and curiosity and a tenderness that he can hardly think about -- not that, at this particular moment, he can think of much of anything other than how perfect she feels against him. “Agatha,” he murmurs, breaking away to kiss down her jawline to her neck. “Agatha, mon ange. What do you want?”

“This.” He aches for more, and reaching forward, she takes his hands in hers. When she looks back up at him, she doesn’t look away. “You.” Her eyes burn with determination and with gentleness and with want, and any of those three alone would be enough to undo him. “Tarvek,” she says, and he swallows hard. “I love you. I trust you.” She pauses and squeezes his hands. “I want you. And I’m sure about that, and I’ll still be sure the next five times you ask me.” 

He can’t help but smile. “Are you sure about that?”

She laughs and leans in for a brief kiss. “Tell me what you want.”

“What I--”

“Tell me,” she repeats.

For a moment, he is quiet. “I couldn’t ask for more than this, love.” He slips one of his hands from hers and strokes her cheek, leaning down to press his forehead against hers. “For you, here with me.”

“Hmm.” After a moment, she asks, “Can I tell you what I want?”

“Of course, my lady.”

“I...” She takes a deep breath. “I want to kiss you, and hold you, and to touch you and learn what makes you happy, and what makes me happy, and I want... I want to see you without those barriers. I want to see you when you’re not holding yourself back.”

“...Oh.”

She looks at him again, and she bites her lip. “I want. I want you to make love to me. With me. I do,” she adds, and her voice has gone a little shaky. “What about you?”

Tarvek finds himself lost for words suddenly and for thoughts and that somehow between his heart and his brain and his tongue something has gotten stuck. “I...” he says, and then “I...” again. He closes his eyes, and when he opens them again, Agatha is looking up at him. 

She is radiant and perfect and she is here, with him. She loves him. She trusts him. She wants him. He thinks he might cry. 

Instead, he kisses her forehead and then her mouth, gently, and then he tries to speak again. 

His heart pounds in his ears, and his hands shake. He’s hot all over and he can’t think of anything but her, and it’s better than anything that’s ever happened to him. “Agatha. Agatha, mon coeur. Mon ange. I want... I want this,” he murmurs, and he kisses her again, soft and yielding. “I want to love you. I want... to adore you, to please you. I want this to be yours, as I am yours, ma princesse, and as I will always be. I want to give you everything you want here and now. More than anything, I want this... I want this to be for you. I want to make you happy.” Once he’s started talking, he can hardly stop himself.

She runs her hand down his shoulder. “Will making me happy make you happy, Tarvek?” Her voice is soft, and he trembles at it. “Tell me.”

“More than anything, love.”

She looks into his eyes again, and what she says next floors him completely. “You said once that you weren’t allowed to be happy. I want -- I want to change that. Can I, Tarvek?”

Even if he wanted to speak, he can’t -- his throat is tight and his eyes are prickling. How could he ever possibly deserve this? Deserve her? 

“You say that like you haven’t already,” he finally manages. And then she’s kissing him, sweet and patient and slow, and he doesn’t know how it’s possible for him to keep falling more in love with her but he does, he is, and together they sink to the floor. She cradles his face and breathes him in and they’re close, so close, she’s in his lap and pressed against his chest and letting him take her weight as she kisses him and doesn’t stop, as he keeps trying to pull her nearer. Her glasses are cutting into his cheekbone and he doesn’t care, not when he can feel her and taste her and not with her mouth on his like that.

Then she gets her hands into his hair, and she keeps kissing him, still slow and maddening and perfect. She’s solid in his arms, against his chest, as he opens his mouth to her. 

The kissing becomes more insistent, the hunger in it more plain, and Tarvek clings to Agatha, trying to ground himself, in danger of being blown away entirely by his own desire and by hers. When she finally breaks away they’re both breathless and pink-faced, and when Agatha smiles at him it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

She kisses the tip of his nose and then snuggles back against him. Wondering if they should leave the floor, he wraps his arms around her. As he cuddles her close she hums in contentment and trails her fingers down his chest, and for a long moment they both fall silent.

“Agatha?”

“Mmm?”

The situation in his trousers is rather... pressing, and he wants to be honest about this. All of it.“I’ve, uh... I’ve never...”

She kisses his shoulder, turning a little to face him. “I know.”

He winces. “...It was that obvious?”

“A little.” 

“Oh, God, I’m sorry...”

“No, no, no!” She puts a finger to his lips, and he quiets. “I haven’t, either.” Her voice quavers. “I’ve... I’ve thought about it. But I didn’t feel ready before now.” She looks up at him through her lashes, face flushed pink. “And, um, I asked Zeetha for maiden tea, so we wouldn’t have to worry about. That. And she, um, gave me some pointers.” Agatha blushes even redder and buries her face in her hands.

He groans. “Do I want to know what she said?” 

She peers out at him from between her fingers. “...‘Make sure he gives you a satisfactory number of orgasms’?”

He splutters uselessly and goes redder than Agatha. She, for her part, gives an embarrassed little laugh and presses closer to his chest.

They both fidget for a moment before Agatha speaks up again. “Do you... d’you think we should move to the bed?”

“Oh! Um. Yes.” He disentangles himself and helps her to her feet. Losing the contact with her, not having her in his arms and on his lap, it aches, and he barely manages to resist the urge to wrap himself back up in her right then. He can’t think. He needs to think. Needs to be able to focus on her, needs to hold out, needs to control, needs--

Agatha slips her hand back into his, and the touch jolts through him. “Bed?” she says again. He nods, and she leads him there. 

When they reach the edge of the bed, she turns and looks at him, waiting. “My lady,” he murmurs, and he gives in. He slides his hands around her waist and nuzzles his head into the crook of neck and shoulder. She’s… perfect.

Below him she shifts, kicking off her boots, and then she surges against him. He realizes with a sudden shock of terror that if she hasn’t before, she must feel him against her stomach now. “Agatha, I’m--”

“I... I know.” She pauses, and her hand drifts down. His mind goes white for a moment at the thought. “What do you want?” she asks.

He tries, desperately, to gather himself. Statistics. Genealogies. The chemical composition of the human body. Eighteen Steps To A Safe And Effective Laboratory Protocol, Safety And Effectiveness Not Guaranteed. The records of the Transylvania Polygnostic rocket-powered death ray squash team. It’s not very helpful. “Not--not yet. Not yet.” 

She nods, and she reaches for one of his wrists. It takes him a moment to figure out that she’s unbuttoning his cuffs. “Oh, um.”

“You don’t want me to?”

“No, no -- I mean, yes -- I mean, go ahead.” He proffers his other arm, feeling rather useless, and she moves on to the buttons of his waistcoat and then to the front of his shirt. Before long she has him bared to the waist, and as he kicks out of boots and socks she starts on his belt. At his startled look, she stops abruptly. “Not yet?”

“If you... if you want...” 

But instead she smiles, half nervous and half devious, and then she gathers his hands and puts them at the clasps of her bodice. “Your turn.”

He fumbles with them, simple buckles suddenly beyond him. Finally he gets them undone, and he slips the garment away. 

She giggles, and he shuts his mouth abruptly. “It’s okay,” she says. “You can look.”

Tarvek blushes scarlet, and Agatha grins. Not quite Heterodyning yet, she hums, a pleased little sound that seems to reverberate through Tarvek’s whole body, and lifts his hands, setting them against the buttons of her blouse. 

She presses forward as he starts to fumble with the buttons -- tiny, slippery little things, coated in mother-of-pearl. The soft rise of her chest right under his hands is maddening. He finishes and slips her shirt off, letting her move to push it down her arms. When she’s free of it, left only in her chemise, she catches one of his hands. His breath sticks in his throat when she brings it to her mouth and kisses his knuckles, one by one. Part of his mind tries to remind him that this is the wrong way round, that he should be kissing her like that, but it’s drowned out completely when she flattens out his fingers and presses his hand to the curve of her breast. 

“Nnh,” says Tarvek, wishing his mouth wouldn’t keep moving without his permission, and then, “Um... you’re sure?”

“Tarvek, I put it there.”

“Sorry.” He tries to pull his hand away, embarrassed, but she catches it and puts it back.

With her other, she cups his chin, and her eyes flash with Spark. “I trust you not to hurt me, Tarvek. And I want you to touch me, and I want you to do what you want, too. Not just what you think I’d like.”

“Ah...”

She reddens, but she keeps talking -- Mad enough to be bold. “I don’t know what I like or what I want, and if you keep asking so much, I’m going to start worrying that you don’t want it.”

“That’s... that’s not...”

“I’ll tell you if I need you to stop, okay?”

“...Okay,” he says. “And.. and I’ll tell you?”

She nods. “And... I do like that you’re asking. I do. It’s nice. Just a little less, though? And just... do something you want to do.” She smiles, and the Madness in it sends a shiver up his spine. “And let me see it.”

He shuts his eyes for a moment and tries to gather himself, even as he spins toward his own Madness Place. She trusts him not to hurt her. She trusts him not to get it wrong. She trusts him more than he trusts himself.

When he looks at her again, she’s staring back at him, eyes wide and green and shining, and he is lost. He’s still afraid but her words echo in his head and he nearly shakes.

He worries again -- how can he please her when he’s half-mad with love and lust and when his brain feels like it’s gone out of focus? -- but this time, he doesn’t panic. Well, says part of him that’s keyed to the way his head spins every time he touches her, let’s find out.

He buries his face in the crook of her neck, lavishing kisses over the soft skin there, nuzzling along her clavicle. With an encouraging little hum, she wraps an arm around his shoulder; emboldened, he makes his way slowly up her throat. 

“Mmm.” She smells like soap and tea and Madness and he’s still not used to feeling this happy, this helpless, this loved. His neck is starting to ache from bending, and he doesn’t care; he wants this, now and forever. He wants her.

Do something you want to do. 

He moves back and looks down at her, forgetting what he wanted to say as soon as she smiles. 

“Agatha,” he mumbles, unable to keep a smile off his own face, and then he bends to mouth along her collarbone again until he can kiss the hollow at the base of her throat. She makes another of those pleased little sounds, and he kisses her again. She is beautiful. He is hers.

Then, slowly, carefully, he presses a string of kisses downward, over the curve of her breast, nuzzling and kissing and trailing down toward her cleavage. 

“Good?” he asks, breathless.

“V--very.” Her voice goes breathy, almost squeaky, and Tarvek grins against her. Still cautious, still tentative, he moves farther until he can bury his face in her breasts.

When he nuzzles across them, she gasps and tugs him forward. One hand ends up in his hair, knocking the tie of his ponytail loose, and it spills forward in a curtain of red as he tentatively cups one breast, lifting his face just enough to see hers.

This is probably a good time to ask. 

“...May I?”

She nods, eyes wide and dark and glasses gone askew, and he presses the length of his body to her as he skims over the rise of one nipple with his thumb. She takes a sharp breath, and he tries it again, keeping his gaze on her face. 

On with the experiment.

He rolls it gently through the fabric, and then a little harder when she seems to like it, and it doesn’t take long before he’s bold enough to slide his hand up under her chemise. She shivers at the contact, and he tries to hold back a moan.

“Wait--wait,” she gasps. “Hold on.” 

He does, obediently, while she fumbles to get the garment over her head. When she drops it to the floor and turns back to him, he can’t help but stare.

Flushing and looking away, she unbuttons her skirt and steps out of it. It’s not until she moves toward the ties of her drawers that his tongue unsticks itself.

“...May I?”

She hesitates for a moment, but then she grins, and the sight of her smiling and blushing and bare to the waist leaves him feeling concussed. “Only if I get to do yours.”

Tarvek, for once in his life, is entirely lost for words. When he finally manages to stop gaping, he nods -- and then, when she gives his backside a sudden appreciative squeeze, makes a noise embarrassingly like a squeak.

She giggles, a pleased but embarrassed little sound, and eases both trousers and drawers down lower on his hips. She runs a finger down his stomach, following the faint red line of hair to where it disappears beneath the waistband of his drawers. Her hand stays there a moment, and then she presses her palm to him just lightly.

He really does squeak this time. Or maybe it’s more of a whine. Either way, it seems to embolden her, and either way, he does it again when she cups him through the fabric.

“Is this okay?” she asks, a bright edge of Spark in her voice.

He arches helplessly, wordlessly into her hand, but then she moves it away. He opens his mouth to protest and then closes it again, very abruptly, when she tugs down his trousers and shorts together.

His face burns, and he shuts his eyes, not sure what to do or even to expect. When he opens them again he finds her studying him, one hand at her mouth, the picture of scientific observation. 

One part of him thinks it’s silly, endearing, adorable. The other part sends a throb straight through him. 

She lifts her gaze to his face, and he moves forward to press his hands back to her waist, a question in his eyes.

She nods, and he nearly forgets his own nervousness, his own exposure as he unties her drawers and lets them fall away from the full curve of her hips. 

Now it’s his turn to stare and hers to blush as he takes her in. “No, don’t… don’t be embarrassed,” he finds himself saying when she shuts her eyes. “You’re… so perfect.” 

She reaches out and trails a hand down his shoulder, down his chest. “So are you.”

“No,” he says. 

“Yes.” She takes his hand, and he’s startled at the softness of her touch and even more surprised when she leads him toward the bed to lie next to her. 

“Agatha,” he murmurs, “Agatha, ma princesse. May I…?”

“May you what?”

“Ah.” Meaning to pause just a moment before asking, he kisses her full on the mouth. In an instant, though, she flows against him, and suddenly, inevitably, she’s in control. 

It’s searing, consuming, lingering in heat and strength and a fierceness that floods through him as he takes her weight and as their hands dig against each other. He breaks for breath, and she makes a noise that’s almost a growl as she goes for his mouth again. Every bit of power in her is in her kiss, and Tarvek is no match for it. He melts.

She pulls away, finally, and grins. “You were saying?” she breathes. 

“May I, uh. Continue?”

“Oh.” She brushes her hair instinctively from her face. “Y-yes.”

It’s the permission he needs, and he ducks in to trail his mouth from lips to jawline. He moves downward over the softness of her skin, reveling in it, dizzy and desperate and wanting to kiss every inch of her. She tightens a hand on his back as he keeps kissing, keeps moving and mouthing down the column of her neck, stopping to suck when he finds a spot that makes her moan. 

“I love you,” he murmurs against her collarbone.

After a moment, she strokes his hair. “I love you too.”

Smiling against her skin, he continues, following his path from earlier, trailing soft kisses down the rise of her breast. He finds her nipple, and she gasps and digs a hand into his hair as he gives it a gentle suck.

She is an altar he’ll gladly worship at, and the little sounds of pleasure she’s making are driving him mad in more ways than one. He’s lost in her, in how she’s reacting to his hands and his mouth and his body against her, trying to find what she most enjoys. Then, when she slides a hand down between their bodies to find him he gives a start and a moan against her chest.

Her free hand strokes his hair, tangling her fingers through it. “Oh, don’t stop,” she says, just above a whisper.

So he doesn’t. He kisses, moving slowly, letting his hands drift down her sides to rest on her hips, still not bold enough yet to slip between them.

She, on the other hand, has no such qualms, and he’s losing control quickly. He’s getting too close. Too fast. He lifts his head from her breast and catches her hand, pulling it away from himself. 

“Was that wrong?” she asks, looking worried.

“N-no. No!” he reassures her. “I promise. It was -- it was good.” She doesn’t look convinced, and he takes her hand and places it over his other, where it rests on her hip. “Agatha,” he says, a tremor in his voice. He can’t rush this. He can’t mess it up. She deserves more, so much more than he can give her. “Agatha, mon ange. If you’re ready, guide me.”

She does, and he follows her lead. When he fumbles, she guides him back before he can trap himself in frantic apologies. As she encourages him he grows bolder, more daring, more bent on pleasing her, peppering kisses over her skin and running his free hand down the curve of her side. When she murmurs his name, he tries not to moan against her skin; when she says it again, desperate now, he can’t stop himself from easing downward and downward still. When his lips trail across her stomach, she gasps, and he freezes.

“Agatha?”

“No, don’t -- it’s just -- are you sure?”

“Well..." He does his best to look alluring. "Would you like it?”

Already wide-eyed, she goes bright pink. Tarvek starts moving again as soon as he sees her nod. 

For a brief moment he wonders what's come over him (Agatha, it's always Agatha, and only more so now), but he doesn’t hesitate. It’s not as if he’s thinking about what he’s doing -- it’s not as if he could think about anything but the way she’s shuddering against him, anything but her reaction to his lips and tongue and the _sound_ she makes at last.

He allows himself a little bit of startled self-satisfaction as she recovers, but it doesn’t last long. Then she’s over him, in his lap, pulling him in to kiss him just as hard as before. Her turn. It hurts a little when she tugs on his hair. Tarvek doesn’t have the brainpower left to contemplate why he likes that, and anyway, his attention is on other things entirely.

“What do you want?” he whispers against her mouth. She laughs, and she kisses him again.

 

(Afterward, when she draws him into her arms, he cradles her almost instinctively against his chest, hoping she'll let him fall asleep like that. She yawns and smiles and snuggles against him, and he finds he suddenly can’t say anything at all.)

**Author's Note:**

> Maiden weed/maiden tea is Sparky birth control, courtesy of the second novelization. The Castle is, naturally, very annoyed at Zeetha for providing this.
> 
> The endearments translate to "my angel," "my heart," and "my princess." Tarvek, you're embarrassing yourself.


End file.
